


And This Night Keep Us

by JonsaInTheNorth



Series: Tormented Nights [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They aren't his family, but that means that neither is she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And This Night Keep Us

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: post season 6, Jon and Sansa think they're siblings so they bottle their feelings up. That's why the news of Jon's lineage is such a relief for both of them…

Bran’s voice is deep and low, so different from how he sounded as a boy when last they met. Wisdom hides behind his haggard blue eyes and weary smile. His words cut Jon, slicing into him smoothly and invisibly like Arya’s needle slides into her enemies’ bodies.

He stares blankly at his brother- no, his cousin- as the news sinks its claws into him and grasps his soul with sharp talons.  _So much is wrong with this_ , he thinks as he gazes from Bran to their wolves to Arya, who won't meet his eyes. But as he reaches Sansa, he thinks,  _but so much is finally right._

“Leave me.” He grows, voice harsher than it means to be. He follows softly with a pleading, “please.”

They file out, even Ghost trotting along at Summer’s heels. Sansa is last behind his wolf. She sets her hand gently on his shoulder. “You know what this means.”

He rolls his shoulder to burns Sansa’s burning touch away from his icy skin. “Go, Sansa. DOn’t judge me so base that my first thought would be to be inside you.”

Again, he speaks with anger that is only somewhat true. Jon does not miss the hurt in her pouting lip and downcast eyes, as she hurries out of his solar. 

 _It was not my first thought_ , he assures himself, crushing his hands into tight fists. His nails dig harshly into the flesh of his hand, breaking skin and drawing blood.  _But second is not much less depraved._

Jon’s fury steams within, filling every crevice of his mind and heart. Anger towards Eddard Stark, for all the lies he told him; anger towards Robert Baratheon, who stole his true father from him. A childish ire even fumes for Sansa, who thought him beneath her when all this time  _they_ were beneath him. 

The fire dims to a few crackling embers as he sits there, staring into its burning soul. He senses Ghost pacing before his chambers, that strange connection between them stronger than it has been in quite some time. He stands with such a force his chair slides back behind him, and slams his door against the wall when he throws it open.

Ghost pads down the hall in that quiet way of his, paws barely making a sound against the stone floor. His master follows after, already knowing to where they go. 

Her door hangs slightly ajar and Jon is quick to enter. Sansa waits in a delicate grey nightrail, sitting in the center of her great bed as if she expected him. Of course she did. Oftentimes, she knows him better than he knows himself. One, two, three great steps and he is before her, pulling her up to the edge of her blankets and into his arms.

Jon kisses her roughly, unsure how to show the intense mix of exasperation and jubilation that flows like blood through his being. He pulls her hard against him, wanting to feel every part of her and know her even more. This is right, they are right, because there is no societal rule of propriety that says he cannot crave her in the ways he does, no septa or watching chaperone, just them and the moonlight through her window.

“The door,” she whispers between his kisses, “get the door before someone comes.”

He carries her with him, body to body, chest to chest, heart to heart, not wanting to be parted. The door shuts loudly with the press of his boot, but Jon does not care. He does not care that Ghost stands without, giving away the presence of his master. He does not care if the entirety of Winterfell can hear Sansa when he makes her moan later in this night.

He lays her down before her fire, hotter by far then his own, against the dark furs that keep her feet warm whenever she treads away from the comfort and confines of her place of rest. She is beautiful laid out like this before him, dots of sweat trailing across her forehead and lips red from his effort.

“Is this what you want?” He asks, staring down at her. He sets a hand against the edge of her nightrail, ready to ease it off her body if only she gives the word.

“All I want is you.” Sansa’s voice is husky yet delicate, hers in every way. “Now and always.”

“I’m sorry for how I spoke,” he says, pulling the cloth over her shoulders with one fell tug. “Let me earn you again.”  
  
“You already have me.” Sansa begins to say, but it barely makes it out as he finds his way to her center and sets a hungry kiss there. 

This night is theirs and it still feels so wrong, her hand buried in his hair and him buried in her, but time will prove that it is right and true, the way the gods intended for it to be: Jon and Sansa, Sansa and Jon, eternally wrapped and eternally written together.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
